I felt like I'd lived a week, after less than two hours since Jarryd Hayne made his outstanding debut in a warm-up game against a bunch of third and fourth-string Texans.

Social media and clickbait stories have done nothing but turn us into a hyped-up, over-the-top bunch of clowns in my opinion.

Scott Sawyer.

Hayne hasn't made yards against the Indianapolis Colts' first-team.

He's played the equivalent of an Ashes tour match and scored a few runs against some Pommy plumber who plays a bit of cricket in between pints.

Not that I'm not supportive of him.

I'm all aboard the Hayne Train in his NFL quest.

I just think we all need to settle down a little bit.

We didn't go this crazy when Shane Watson made runs did we?

Oh wait.

That never happened.

And with that cricket segue; I turn my attention to what has really broken my spirit.

The death of long-form, pure, beautiful test cricket.

It's dead.

Gone.

Hit and giggle with slapshots, horror techniques, giant bats and concrete-like pitches for a few million bucks has well and truly replaced the baggy green as the ultimate and the sport is worse off for it.

What happened to dreaming of digging in on a green deck and grinding out a gritty, bloodied, bruised 50 or 100?

When did that become less rewarding than seeing those infuriating fireworks light up for a top edge that's flown 80 metres?